


Only You

by Oshun



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-23
Updated: 2011-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:57:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshun/pseuds/Oshun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of how Dumbledore meets, falls in love with and loses Grindelwald. Pure canon (very close anyway, if one includes book verse, JKR interview and my own relentless extrapolation!), which means it cannot have a happy ending. All and all I hope projects the old adage that it is better to have loved and lost than never loved at all. Teaser: ”Magic like his is a marvel that I have only encountered a few times in my life and that was my first experience. I had no defense against it. My own magic strained and buzzed beneath my skin in a barely controllable response.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my Beta IgnobleBard.

By the pricking of my thumbs,  
Something wicked this way comes.  
Open, locks,  
Whoever knocks!  
—Macbeth, Act IV, scene 1, William Shakespeare

 

Chapter 1 - Something Wicked This Way Comes

I remember opening the shutters wide and inhaling deeply. The slightly musty scent of springtime, of too much rain and mud, had been replaced by the smell of flowering trees and new growth. Enchantment shimmered in the country air, reaching across the dewy grass. It was almost as though I could perceive the magic extending down the steep path from our humble cottage and onto the road into the village of Godric's Hollow proper.

As I gazed out of my open bedroom window, I could hear Ariana humming softly to herself in the kitchen beneath me. On the days when she awakened lucid and inclined to brew a pot of tea, toast some bread, and set the table, one could hardly imagine what she was capable of at her worst. Resilience and youth had thus far enabled me to weather the misfortunes that had befallen my sister, father and mother. Elusive during the dark hours of the night, hope seemed attainable in the clarity of that morning’s early summer sunshine.

The previous evening had been one of the quieter ones for the two of us. Aberforth, in his fifth year at Hogwarts at the time, had not yet returned home for the summer holidays. Ariana and I had been living there alone since our brother left for school again that past fall. She missed the company of Aberforth. I yearned for him to return also, but regretfully not for himself, but so that he might relieve me of part of the burden of constantly minding Ariana.

I had read to her from an ancient book of Muggle children's tales in order to help her fall asleep the previous night. Ariana exercised an unchallenged tyranny over our entire household. She would coerce Aberforth into conducting a whole series of tasks for her and entertaining her at command throughout the day. Despite being well beyond the age for bedtime stories, she insisted that I alone should tell her stories or read her to sleep every night. I did so without argument rather than face the consequences of one of her protracted fits of hysteria.

That particular night she had chosen a story called “The Girl without Hands.” It is one of those morbid tales that so often find their way into children’s storybooks. In this one a girl permits her hands to be chopped off by her father in order to save her family. I could barely keep my voice from breaking and my hands from trembling as I turned the pages to read such horrific passages as:

Then he went to the girl and said, "My child, if I do not chop off both of your hands, then the devil will take me away, and in my fear I have promised him to do this. Help me in my need, and forgive me of the evil that I am going to do to you."

She answered, "Dear father, do with me what you will. I am your child," and with that she stretched forth both hands and let her father chop them off.” (“The Girl without Hands.” Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm.)

After appalling suffering, the brave protagonist wins the love of a king and encounters another rescuer in the form of an angel. Finally, the maiden's hands are restored to her. Despite Ariana’s usual perceptiveness, she appeared to discern nothing at all freakishly unpleasant in the story, which to me in many disconcerting ways resembled her own trials. She instead wept tears of joy at the happy ending and fell into a dreamless sleep for once.

My composure had cracked at the similarity of the girl’s sacrifice of her hands at a parent’s insistence and Ariana’s loss of the use of her magic. I shuddered when she said, “Thank you, Albus. That story was so good!”

Apparently, I had successfully hidden my nervous state from her.

Despite their often tragic nature, my sister favored poems relating to kidnappings by fairies and traditional knights-and-fair-ladies romances. But it was not simply that she sought insipid nursery tales, but that she preferred even Muggle history over any topic which touched upon true life accounts of the doings of Wizards. Narratives relating to solving problems or overcoming realistic hardships made her anxious. I could understand her aversion. After our father had been sent to Azkaban, we overheard our mother engaging in far too many hysterical exchanges with tradesmen and other creditors about the impossibility reshuffling our ever-shrinking income to meet increasing household expenses. Even normal, resilient children do not deserve a childhood clouded by such matters, much less a girl of Ariana’s background and fragility.

Any possible cure for my sister had been rejected by our mother in order to save what remained of the tattered reputation of our benighted family. Her justification had been that she feared Ariana would be kept drugged and held in confinement in St Mungo's for the rest of her life if the extent of her lack of control over her wild magic were to be discovered.

Decades later I questioned within my own heart if my mother honestly believed the explanations she gave us. It could have been that she had knowingly sacrificed Ariana to allow Aberforth and me to live a relatively normal life. If that were the case, my mother’s gamble had failed on an epic scale. Initially, I was far too young to question my mother’s judgment. By the time I had assumed the role as head of the Dumbledore family at the ripe old age of seventeen, Ariana’s troubles were nowhere near the top of my list of urgent concerns.

My father had destroyed his life and the integrity of our family because he had been unable to protect Ariana from physical harm. My mother, proud and resentful of the turn in our fortunes, was incapable of shielding my sister from the worries of adult life. After the death of our mother, Aberforth and I allowed Ariana--neither of us properly equipped to care for her--to linger in a shadowy illusion of the childhood which had been snatched untimely from her.

Ariana habitually viewed simple choices of right and wrong as frustratingly insurmountable challenges. The stories I read her could not contain explicit descriptions of violence, nothing about the loss of mothers or fathers, meetings with threatening strangers, raising goats, or mutton stew. Do not even ask me to detail all of her prohibitions. The list was as long as my arm and the explanations for each as tedious and complicated as they were wide-ranging.

On the evening before Gellert arrived, she had fallen asleep early and slept long into the morning. I recall thinking that it was about time that she had a good stretch of sleep. It had been a nearly a fortnight since she had enjoyed an uninterrupted night.

Ariana was as lovely a girl when awake and coherent as she was in deep repose. Her auburn hair, on the redder side of chestnut, a color she shared with Aberforth and me, contrasted beautifully with her milky skin and hazel eyes. It broke my heart to look upon her fine regular features, so feminine yet strong, to think of how she certainly would have, in a better world, grown to be a remarkable woman and as much sought after for her wild strain of powerful magic tempered by sweetness as she would have been for her beauty. I never knew in those days whether I would wake up in the morning to find a sensitive intelligent young girl or a snarling, scratching, feral little monster, given to outbreaks of uncontrollable and potentially destructive magic.

In the way of the very young and selfish, I more often than not endured Ariana's disabilities as undeserved misfortunes which had befallen me personally. But on that sun-dappled late spring morning, my thoughts were limited to the awareness that if Ariana were to spend the day alert and cheerful, I might be able to relax. I could read and answer some correspondence. Perhaps I would even be inspired to compose some letters to scholarly Wizarding journals suggesting articles I wished to submit.

My recent leave taking with the highest honors from Hogwarts had provided me with the prospect of eliciting the attention of academics and publishers. The window of opportunity, however, would not remain open long without publications in my own name. Publishing early and often was one of the few means for an independent scholar of my generation to earn a living. Not only had I been snatched away from what had appeared such a short while earlier to have been the certainty of a brilliant career but, with the tragic death of my mother, I found myself burdened with the support of my frail and dangerous sister and my recalcitrant younger brother.

Those would have been daunting tasks for any Wizard barely turned eighteen years of age. It is not conceited for me to say that I was not just any Wizard as a youth, but a remarkably gifted one. My family circumstances might have been considered heavy beyond all bearing by most people, but my personal attributes were unequaled by any among the peers or mentors I had encountered at that period in my life.

Somewhere in the bloodline of the Dumbledores, often skipping generations, there ran a much touted strain of elemental, powerful magic and it seemed to have reached its pinnacle in me. A fact that I know is being studied by some eccentric scholars now, which would have been considered outright heresy by the most forward-looking of Wizards in my youth, is that the subspecies of magic found in pureblood Wizards can be strengthened by the addition of one or another of the unique strains of magic found among Muggle-born mages.

That remarkable summer, I still believed, another manifestation of youthful arrogance, that my Magical talents and my professional achievements were wholly of my own making. I see now that nurture and the complicated genetic cocktail of the generations of Magical creatures which had come together in me had, if not determined, at least influenced greatly the development of the overconfident young Wizard I had become. My hard-won understanding causes me to look back with more modesty and less self-hatred at my own past. It also enables me without my early bitterness to be more forgiving and philosophical about the distressing outcome for that spectacular Wizard who was shortly to become my first and only love.

 

** ** ** ** ** ** **

 

"Albus!" Ariana called, her voice shrill with urgency. "Are you all right? I have been trying to tell you that I brought you a cup of tea."

I had not even heard her enter the room. I wondered how long I had been standing there gawking out of the window, contemplating my short life and the circumstances of those closest to me. Also, for the last two or three minutes at least, I had been hearing but not processing the sound of Ariana’s voice, as I inspected a couple hiking up the path towards our cottage--a short woman and a tall boy or man. As they drew closer to the garden gate, I could observe him better. My surprise at what I saw provoked a smile.

"I called you three times,” Ariana said, pushing a steaming teacup under my nose. “Couldn't you hear me?" She stuck her lower lip out at me before abandoning all pretense of pouting.

"Oh! So sorry," I answered, taking the cup from her while grinning reflexively to reassure her. “Thank you very much.”

Mollified, she smiled and pointed toward the open arched window with its decorative parapets, some 19th century middle-class Wizard’s literal interpretation of the old adage that a man’s home is his castle.

"Who is that beautiful blond boy coming up the path with Bathilda Bagshot?” she asked. “One may call a young man with his looks beautiful, mayn't one?" She pressed herself up close to me to get a better view out of the window, studying him carefully, pursing her small rosebud of a mouth and wrinkling her nose in concentration. I curled my arm around her slender waist, fascinated with the waves of curiosity and concern that poured out of her.

I snapped my mouth shut, realizing I had allowed it to fall open as I had turned again to look out of the window and process the supple litheness of him, the glitter of sunlight upon his golden hair, the careless grace of his stride. He wore a waistcoat of an outmoded vaguely continental cut, narrow in the waist, flared slightly and longish. His sartorial sense would have appeared foreign by either Wizards’ or Muggles’ conventions. But his air of relaxed youthfulness stood out against his antiquated garb.

Old lady Bagshot’s shapeless black robe flapped about her low, plump figure adding contrast to their discrepancy in height and age. I seemed to recall that she had relatives in Eastern Europe. That might explain the quaint fashion sense of the attractive stranger. By his demeanor--the self-satisfied cant of his head and the loose, assured swing of his stride--he appeared to be an unabashedly confident young man. His aristocratic fineness of features and his casual elegance of movement were offset by a careless gesture of repeatedly tossing an unruly mop of loosely curling hair out of his face.

"I would certainly say one could," I said, expelling a besotted sigh, grateful that only Ariana and not Aberforth was present to observe me. Even so, Ariana discerned something strange about my reactions and considered me with a puzzled frown.

“Could what?” she asked, distracted.

“You definitely could call him beautiful.” I did not even bother to hold back another wistful exhalation. What impression would I make on him? It already mattered terribly what this unknown youth might think of me. No one would have called me beautiful at first sight.

She shrugged and laughed softly. “It took you forever to answer me. I forgot what I had asked you."

I can still see in my mind’s eye, as clearly as though I were looking at a Muggle motion picture, the upward curve of his wide sensual mouth, the rosy blush across high cheekbones visible under a light suntan. Even now, remembering how he cocked his head to one side laughing at something Professor Bagshot said to him causes a hitch in my chest. He took hold of her elbow to give her balance on the rocky path with the accustomed ease of a person who knows how to use attentiveness to charm. Truth be told, Gellert Grindelwald could make any companion feel for a wonderful moment frozen in time that they were the focus of his entire universe.

"Do you know who he is?” Ariana asked. “I think they must be coming here."

"I have no idea who he is,” I replied. “I would absolutely remember if I had seen him before. I do think I had better put my trousers on and go downstairs to let them in."

"I'll stay upstairs and come down after they leave,” she said. “There is a new pot of tea on the kitchen table. I don't like nosy old lady Bagshot and that boy has frighteningly strong magic. I can feel it prickling on the back of my neck,” she said, lifting her shoulders up in a shiver. “He is very pretty though."

"Run along to your room then and let me get dressed. You can stay upstairs and I'll take care of them. I'm sure they won't stay long."

Shedding my nightshirt, I grabbed my trousers from the night before. Hopping on one foot and then the other in the direction of the wardrobe, I managed to get both legs into my trousers. I then shuffled through my clean shirts there, hoping to find an appropriate one. My intention was to look presentable, without appearing to have made too great of an effort. Professor Bagshot’s was generous enough to allow me to use her personal library. She did not stand on formality. I never wore a collar and tie for those visits, so I grabbed a Russian-style green tunic that I had been told accentuated my eyes.

Before I could finish washing my face and cleaning my teeth, I heard them knocking. I stuck my head out of the window and called that I would be right down. Professor Bagshot tilted her fussy little parasol at me in greeting, reminding me of a gentleman tipping his hat. She permitted a smile to crease her plump cheeks. The lad raised his eyebrows at the sight of me, cocking one head to the side, before grinning, apparently pleased at what he saw. I remember thinking that perhaps I was not so unappealing after all to have merited such a response. I quickly rinsed my mouth, fastened my shirt and ran down the stairs.

Ariana had indeed left the teapot steeping on the table. She had covered it with a cozy and set out a pitcher of fresh milk. I quickly placed two more cups on the table. The sliced bread, butter and jam, may not have been a feast, but it would do for unannounced guests so early in the morning I hoped.

Opening the door and seeing Gellert up close gave me a twofold shock, not only was he even more handsome than he had appeared at a distance of thirty feet, but his magic was palpable to me. I often thought that if the sun had not been so bright that day that I might have seen it hanging in the air like a sparkling mist. Magic like his is a marvel that I have only encountered a few times in my life and that was my first experience. I had no defense against it. My own magic strained and buzzed beneath my skin in a barely controllable response. I took a deep breath and released it to relieve the onset of palpitations.

“Good morning,” I said. “Please come in.”

“There you are, Albus!” Bathilda Bagshot announced. “This is my nephew, Gellert Grindelwald. He’s taken a leave from Durmstrang and will be staying with me for a while. He’s a lot like you: bookish and with a magic nearly too strong for his own good at times. The two of you will get on like a house afire.” Gellert, still grinning, extended an elegant long-fingered hand towards me. I took his hand and held it a few seconds too long before I released it blushing. I thought he might have winked it me, or maybe I imagined it. One thing of which I am certain is that something sparked between the two of us that went beyond the figure of speech. The reaction of each of our magics to one another’s resembled a charge of static electricity without the overt physical manifestations.

Gellert was to tell me later that his Aunt Bathilda had recommended me to him as a lovely young man, clever enough to be good company for even him or especially for him. She had given me no warning whatsoever, simply showed up on my doorstep that summer morning with her incomparable nephew in tow, all but demanding breakfast. Bathilda must have been aware of the similarities of us two youngsters, each accustomed to the feeling of being different from others of our own age. But the force that brought us together carried with it the reaction of a positive and negative charge—the old opposites attract cliché rang true with a vengeance for us. We knew instantaneously without discussing it that our magic together was greater than the sum of its parts. Our response to one another was mutual, electrifying, and irresistible.

“This jam is delicious. Did your sister make it, Albus?” Bagshot inquired.

“No. No one in our family makes jam. I bought it in the village from the lady who sells yarn and jam. We are none of us great cooks. Except, of course, for Aberforth’s infamous--or should I say legendary?--mutton stew.”

“Ah, yes. The mutton stew you bring me from time to time,” Bagshot said, turning to Gellert, her face alight with eagerness. “I do hope you get a chance to try it. So delicious--savory with spices, onions and garlic. Why on earth would you call it infamous?”

“My sister detests it,” I said. Bagshot shook her head sympathetically. Gellert smirked conspiratorially at me, just out of her line of vision.

He finished a slice of bread with jam and butter in no time at all and reached for another piece. I thought that he was probably starving; I recalled that Bagshot ate very little in the evenings.

“I am more than competent enough to whip up some rashers, sausage and eggs, if you would like. Shall I?” I asked.

“Well . . .” drawled Professor Bagshot coyly, “we did leave the house without our breakfast.” Gellert grinned at me, his merry eyes sparkling with mischief.

“That’s what I’ll do,” I stated with firmness.

“Only if you let me help you,” said Gellert. “I traveled across half of Europe with little coin on my way here. I taught myself to cook on the road, in rented rooms and campfires alike, with and without magic.”

My cheeks ached from grinning back at him. His idiomatic, only slightly accented English was a delight to my ears. It was too soon to tell if his responses to me were simply reactive: the result of male adolescent libido and compatible magic or perhaps something more.

“I’ll accept your kind offer,” I said. “And there is no need to be shy about using magic here.”

It was hard to believe that only the day before I had felt alone and friendless, trying to resign myself to a boring future in the poky little village of Godric’s Hollow.


	2. Got on Like A House Afire

“You can come down now,” I shouted up the staircase. “They’ve gone.”

“Oh, Albus!” Ariana giggled in the most exasperating way, skipping down the staircase. She threw her hand across her forehead dramatically, flinging her head to one side. “It is you, oh my prince! The Wizard of my dreams!” She snorted, before dropping her melodramatic tone and assuming her normal tone of voice. “You should see your face.”

“What is wrong with my face?” I managed to choke out, my cheeks on fire.

“Albus! Albus! Albus! You are in love!” she squealed. “I was watching through the railing for most of the time they were here. He is even prettier up close than he was coming up the garden path. And, if it’s any comfort, he’s smitten with you as well. You are a handsome lad yourself, big brother. It is a shame that there is something not quite right about him.”

“You do go on and on,” I protested, trying to cover my embarrassment with bluster.

“I’m just a girl, but I realize you do need company. Aberforth, as much as I love him, is not someone who will ever satisfy your desire for discussion of theories of magic or with whom you can share your love of books. As long as you understand this Gellert boy is no more normal than I am. He will never be able to love you the way you want to be loved. But people like him need love too.”

I did not want to listen to what I thought were her muddled impressions. I wanted with all the intensity of my young heart to believe she was simply reciting some silly nonsense from a romance novel of the kind my mother hid behind her best china on the top shelves of the kitchen cupboard. Ariana had months earlier excavated all of those and read them.

“What makes you think I would look to another boy for that kind of love?” The question was sincere on my part. I needed to know where Ariana got her notions. Could it be that I was the kind of invert who calls attention to himself, the sort that people could identify at a glance?

“Oh, am I wrong?” she said, innocent as a babe, eyes wide and curious, as she clapped a hand over her mouth.

“No. You are not wrong. But there are those in our society who do not approve of such liaisons.”

“I knew that,” she said, but the almost imperceptible quaver in her voice indicated that she indeed had not known. “I suppose that will have to be just one more in a long list of Dumbledore family secrets. But I do not think that he is afraid of people knowing what he likes.”

“Good for him,” I said. The words popping out of my mouth before I had even realized what she had said. “Are you saying that you think he is interested in other boys in that way?”

“He was flirting with you, Albus! Don’t deny it. You know he was.”

I had thought that he might be, but had been afraid to believe it. Once again, I thought that this might turn out to be a very interesting summer after all.

 

** ** ** ** ** ** **

 

“The Perfect Prince” was Ariana’s choice for her fairytale that night. A powerful sorcerer named Titiritero had begged the King and Queen to give him their lovely only child Lucinda as a bride for the Prince of Fairyland. There was a long complicated part about how the malicious Titiritero owed tribute to a cruel and callous Fairy Queen. Lucinda’s family refused at first to relinquish their only offspring. Then Titiritero reminded them that he had protected and enchanted their kingdom for years, giving it peace and plenty beyond that of all its neighbors. Finally, the sorcerer proposed a compromise. He would bring the Fairy Prince to meet Lucinda and if she fell in love with the Prince, they would promise to reconsider the match.

Obviously, the Prince was blond and beautiful, with large indigo eyes. Apparently, Titiritero had, in cooperation with the Queen of Fairy, bestowed upon this perfect Prince every possible charm and grace of body or mind. He was equally handsome rested or tired. He could dress in rags or the finest of jewels, velvet and furs and still fascinate Lucinda. In short the Prince was perfectly irresistible!

Ariana continued to look up at me with a wicked, knowing smirk, trying to look guiltless.

I thought she was up to something. “Do you know this story already?” I asked.

“I never read before or heard it told,” she said, mischief glinting in her eyes. “I do have a feeling it does not have a happy ending.”

Still suspicious, I wrinkled my forehead at her. “Oh?”

“I think it is an omen. Foreshadowing or something. What are the chances that I would pick this story tonight out of all the books on the shelves?”

“Don’t be silly, Ariana. What are you nattering about?” I knew, of course, what she was thinking. The perfect prince was Gellert. The sorcerer was old lady Bagshot and I was the besotted Lucinda. That was the way her mind worked. “What rubbish!” I barked. “You know exactly how to get a rise out of me. Don’t you?”

“Can I help it if a mysterious oh-so-powerful sorcerer almost always is an indication of an unhappy ending to a tale? Add in an evil Fairy Queen and obligations due for past blessings and gifts and you’re doomed, Albus! Not to mention that your prince is just too pretty to be true.” She yawned like a kitten, showing a pointed pink tongue and tiny sharp teeth. “Or, maybe you’ll be lucky. He does have an enchanting laugh. Anyone truly wicked is unlikely to have such a pleasant laugh.”

“Enough of this one for tonight,” I said, tossing the book across the room. I turned it into a birdlike flying object, which then landed upon the bookshelf near the window. That made her laugh. I tucked the counterpane around her chin and kissed her on the forehead. “Good night, baby girl. Tomorrow night, I pick the story for a change.”

“But first thing tomorrow morning, I want to meet the boy.”

“We’ll see,” I said. She had not wanted to meet anyone new in years. “I thought his strong magic bothered you.”

“I thought it would, but it didn’t. When he comes by tomorrow, I’d like you to introduce me to him.”

“If he comes by tomorrow . . .”

“Oh! He will. Good night, Albus. I love you. Do be careful.”

The following morning, I woke up much earlier than usual. I immediately pumped and heated water for a full bath, filling the large tub on the enclosed back porch. It was such a pleasure not to have to bathe in the kitchen near the cooker like we did in the winter. I hoped I would see Gellert again later in the day and laughed a little at myself at how important it had become to me that I should look and smell good when I did see him. I blushed to think of how I had been unable the day before to take my eyes off his mouth; how I yearned to touch those curls of molten gold that framed his elfin face.

I had just begun to towel off when I heard someone knocking on the door. Ariana would be unbearable in her triumphalism I thought to have predicted correctly that Gellert would come by in the morning. Grateful that I had brought a dressing gown along with me, I shrugged into it and belted it around my waist. Since Ariana never answered the door, I would have to scramble lest he should think no one was home and leave.

Then, I heard her speaking. “Please come in. Albus is finishing his bath, but he won’t be long. I am making breakfast. Do you like sausage?”

“Who doesn’t?” Gellert asked with enthusiasm. “You must be Albus’s sister. My aunt told me about you, but I got the impression that you were a little girl. But you are quite the young lady. I presume you have guessed that I am Gellert Grindelwald, Professor Bagshot’s nephew and house guest.”

“Albus did not tell me your name. I spotted you yesterday from our window. I am glad that you are here. There is no one in Godric’s Hollow to keep him company. He was going to travel on the continent with his friend Elphias Doge.” Her merry jumble of words ceased suddenly. She began again in a softer voice, “But then we lost our mother . . .”

After a few moments of silence, I heard a chair move. Gellert must have been sitting at the table already. His voice took on a gentleness that I had not heard in it yet.

“Aunt Bathilda told me. Please accept my condolences. I lost both of my parents also. I understand how hard it must be for you.”

There was nothing to be done about my wet hair and lack of day clothes. I opened the kitchen door and walked through. The best way to face a loss of dignity is to hold one’s head up and confront it directly. “Good morning, Gellert. I see that you have met my sister.”

His face transformed from gentle concern to merriment in an instant. I would learn that there was almost always a hint of laughter behind his bright blue eyes when they met mine.

“I am sorry to have come so early. I’ve interrupted your morning routine,” he said, sounding not in the least sorry. My chest clenched at his beauty. I thought I had exaggerated the memory of it as I fell asleep the night before, picturing his regular features, the golden tangle of curls falling over his collar.

I smiled.

Gellert laughed. He allowed himself to give me a bold up and down survey as though he could see right through my damp dressing gown, was assessing what he saw, and liking it. “If you wish, I can leave and come back later. Or better still, I can stay here and help your pretty sister prepare your breakfast while you go and dress.”

Ariana giggled and tossed her auburn hair without an ounce of self-consciousness as though accepting meaningless compliments from handsome young men was as natural to her as breathing.

“Run along and get dressed, Albus,” she said. “I am starving and I am sure Gellert is also.”

One of the many things that Gellert did well was to make Ariana happy. Instead of moping about or falling into one of her depressive or violent fits, she smiled more often than not. She ate breakfast with us in the mornings and then ran off to sit on the hillside and look down upon the village below us as she sketched or read one of her clichéd books of knights and princes and dragons. Ironically, she often left us with the remark, “I will leave you boys to your silly books now.”

Now I suspect that my little sister perceived with uncanny wisdom, that although our tools appeared to be weighty tomes by Great Thinkers among Muggles and Wizards alike, our discussions that summer were no further from the realm of fantasy than her story books. She saw two disaffected, infatuated boys playing at being men.

Once during that first week, when it seemed to me that Gellert’s flirtatious teasing of her had gone a bit too far, I confronted him. I hoped against hope that my motivation truly was to protect my little sister and not that I was simply jealous that she so often garnered Gellert’s attention.

“Remember that she is only fourteen years old, Gellert! And that her disabilities have kept her isolated,” I had snapped.

“Merlin’s flea-ridden beard, Albus! I had thought surely you of all people had figured out by now that everyone’s sisters, pretty young wives and sweethearts are safe with me. That is not where my appetites lie.”

I blushed painfully at his words, feeling an utter fool. He laughed at me. “I think perhaps Ariana is not the only one in this family who has been sheltered from the big, wide world.” Despite my mortification, my heart soared with hope. Perhaps I did have a chance with Gellert myself.

When I thought of Aberforth returning at the end of the term, a date that approached with dizzying speed, I already mourned. Although I felt guilty about not welcoming my brother home with fervor, I regretted more that his return would upset our newly established habits. Gellert was exactly the type of arrogant, dismissive, sure of himself young man that Aberforth particularly disliked.

The type was common enough at Hogwarts in my schools days, heavily weighted as its population was with the elite pureblood families of Wizarding Britain. Then, like now, every child born with magic received a letter of acceptance. But only those who were not expected to help support their families were free to go. Hence, the population included many fewer Muggle-born Wizards or those of limited means and a larger percentage of the wealthier old families. Even those with a long association with magic, did not always understand the value of a Hogwarts education.

We spent long mornings hiking up into the hills surrounding the Hollow. Gellert asked endless questions about the customs and politics of Wizarding Britain. His disdain for Muggles had been honed to a sharp edge. In those days, I looked down upon my non-Magical neighbors as unfortunates rather than disliking them. Godric’s Hollow had been a mixed community for centuries. In theory, we observed the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. But memories are long in a place like Godric’s Hollow, even with liberal usage of Obliviate. Intermarriages occurred more frequently than in other locations.

I had read too many books of natural science and literature to casually dismiss the unique talents of non-Magical scholars and scientists. I had a subscription to the local lending library, run by a likeable middle-aged Muggle, with a sense of humor and sharp wit. I enjoyed the Sunday evening Muggle concerts at the bandstand in the square.

Gellert himself was pleasant enough in his regular encounters in the village with the local non-Magical populace. He flirted with the daughter of the greengrocer and spoke German to the immigrant butcher, a good-natured if not overly intelligent man. There was nothing in Gellert’s demeanor that screamed “bigot” or “extremist.” It was the enforced secrecy that nettled him and what he considered to be the unreasoning prejudice against magic upon which he poured his scorn.

“Why should we be defensive about who we are?” he would argue. “Clearly, we are genetically superior.” (I always squirmed at that remark. People have no more control over their magic or the lack of it than they do over their eye color.) “Muggles should be honored to have the opportunity to collaborate with those with Magical powers, instead of ignorantly fearing and persecuting us. It is not the Middle-ages! It is nearly the twentieth century!”

I chafed as much as he did at the necessity of keeping the most essential aspects of myself a secret. I envisioned a world where magic and science could be combined to the greatest advantage of all. I honestly do not recall which of us came up with the expression, “For the greater good.” It sounds like something I could have thought of at the time.

“Can you image a world without hunger, poverty, or disease? Where no child is ill-treated or denied an education? ” I asked, impassioned at the idea that there was another Wizard who had the imagination and desire to confront stodgy, old prejudices.

“Education is paramount. Ignorance is vile,” he said. “And the logical extension of eliminating disease is to discover how to master death. I am trying to recall the details of the English tale of the Deathly Hallows. I am sure you must remember it?” I snorted it at that. Every child knew that story.

Charming though it could be at times, Gellert’s penchant for carrying everything to extremes often irritated me, even in those early days. I could not resist responding, “I think the moral of that tale is that very bad things happen when one seeks to master death.”

“Don’t be such straitlaced moralizer, Albus. Think for yourself. Such magic is not wrong in and of itself. The relevant question is: used by whom and to what purpose!”


	3. The Tales of Beedle The Bard

“Will you take me to the graveyard?” Gellert asked. “Is there a separate one for Wizards or is there only the one near the Muggle house of worship? I want to see the graves of the Peverell family.”

His request startled me. As I mentioned earlier, the history of Godric’s Hollow is long. At that time, most of the Wizarding community in Britain knew it to be one of the oldest and most flourishing centers where Wizards and Muggles lived together. Preceding the Statute of 1692 there had been a greater amalgamation of the two communities. However, suspicion and prejudice had already begun to divide the population, even before the Wizarding community codified its laws relating to secrecy.

No one in the Muggle community remembered the Peverell brothers. And few even among practitioners of magic drew any connection between the Peverell family and the story of “The Three Brothers” found in The Tales of Beedle the Bard. Clearly, Gellert had not forgotten about the Deathly Hallows. In fact, I assumed that he must have been researching them in Professor Bagshot’s library since he last raised the question with me.

“There is only the one cemetery. And, the only grave of the Peverell family I have ever found is one identified by its gravestone as belonging to Ignotus Peverell. No doubt numerous other Peverells are buried there as well, but not all graves were well marked in the olden days. Some may have used wooden markers. Those would be long gone, unless enchanted not to decay and apparently that was not a practice,” I explained. “Others are made of stone but weathered beyond legibility and . . . “ Gellert interrupted me.

“That’s fine. Better than I had dared hope. Excellent, in fact,” he said, his voice clipped and intense, his barely suppressed excitement tickling at the edges of my magic. “Ignotus is the one of the most important ones for us.”

“I see. Then you are serious about investigating the Deathly Hallows.”

A lazy, somewhat sly smile spread across his face. “Ah, Albus! I should have known. Everyone else has tried to tell me that it is simply a children’s story. A morality tale of cloudy origins. But you, you never disappoint me. No wonder I immediately fancied you.”

“Have you read the book in its original form?” I asked stiffly. Some vague uneasiness caused me to react with unexpected reluctance to his usual flirting. He appeared not to detect my wariness.

“I read a copy in English,” he said. “A rather old one. I had hoped it was an original. It was the only copy in Aunt Bathilda’s library. Are there many different versions?”

Of course, I would share everything I knew with him eventually, but I felt protective of my knowledge. He clearly knew the basic details, but had not been privy to expert opinions. Thank the old gods for the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts Library. Otherwise, I would not myself have known more than the barest outlines of the discussion of the Deathly Hallows.

“There are as many versions as there are Wizardly publishers in English,” I said. “Every Magical family in Britain has at least one copy of Beedle the Bard. My copy, the one my parents read to me when I was tiny, happens to be a near facsimile of the original text. It’s here somewhere in the house. Let’s go inside and see if we can find it before I walk you to the cemetery.”

 

** ** ** ** ** ** **

 

The trip to the graveyard had gained us very little information. It had nonetheless fueled the flames of Gellert’s enthusiasm for his investigation of the legend. One of Gellert's talents consisted of communicating excitement. From that point forward we focusd our aspirations of changing the Wizarding world and its relationship with the non-magical one upon solving the mystery of the Deathly Hallows.

We talked endlessly of how we ought to begin to track who held the artifacts involved in the legend: the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone and the Invisibility Cloak. I became as agitated as Gellert to get my hands on those mythical objects after listening to him raving about them for several days. I wanted to determine how they functioned. Gellert's attitude, as one might expect, centered upon wanting to harness their power for his use.

The amount of theoretical back and forth about power vs. knowledge, knowledge as power, the right to exercise judgment by those possessing the most knowledge, was not unusual for Wizards in our age range of an academic bent. The difference was that we were isolated from others, both accustomed to leading such discussions, and not familiar with being rudely contradicted. We loved the intellectual gymnastics.

In the end, I coveted the Resurrection Stone the most, while he was determined to try the Elder Wand. To have all three was almost more than I could imagine. Gellert managed put it into words more easily than I could—with all three we could restore magic to its place of preeminence and we could rule the world for the greater good. That sounds transparently repugnant now, but one must remember that was well before Tim Riddle. It was even before the world had seen what happened to Gellert Grindelwald himself.

 

** ** ** ** ** ** **

 

On the day Aberforth was due to return from Hogwarts for the summer, the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs alerted me to his homecoming.

“That must be your brother,” Gellert said obviously, peering at me over the top of my copy of Beedle the Bard that he was reading. We had been expecting Aberforth to arrive for the last two hours or so.

“I suppose it is him,” I added. I did not move or stop writing. After scratching my head over a formulation for hours, I finally had found the words I needed for the essay I was writing.

“Aren’t you looking forward to seeing him?” he asked.

“Hardly,” I answered, realizing that I had not explained to Gellert the complications and conflicts between my brother and me in as much detail as I should have done.

“If I had a brother, I would be excited about seeing him after almost six months.”

“You think you know how you would feel,” I mumbled. Gellert was the quintessential only child, spoiled rotten by doting parents until they had mysteriously disappeared some two years earlier. He grieved for them silently still hiding his loss with less success than he believed. “But you know nothing about having siblings. Particularly a brother like Aberforth.”

We could by then hear Aberforth’s rumbling vocalizations at the end of the hallway, punctuated by Ariana’s dulcet tones. His deep voice still sounded strange and foreign to me. My little brother had turned into a heavy stranger with large rough hands. The differences between the two of us had increased exponentially over the past three or four years.

“I would think you would at least want to hear the latest Hogwart’s gossip. You only left this past year. It is not exactly as though you have been leading a stimulating life here in the Hollow. I am the most thrilling thing that has happened to you recently.” He had no idea how true that was. “If you do not care who is smitten with whom at your Alma Mater, there must be a whole new crop of academic debates and heresies which have blossomed since you left.”

“You covered it all in a nutshell. Unfortunately, I will get none of that from Aberforth. He is not interested in academic discussions or Wizarding politics. Not a social person either.”

“What does he like?” Gellert drew his eyebrows together in an expression of sincere puzzlement. I wanted to stand up and walk over to my bed where he had spread himself, one knee bent, barefooted, in his shirt sleeves, leaning against my pillows, the book resting upon his chest. My bed will smell of him tonight, I thought, of his soap, his aftershave cologne, his perspiration. But I did not dare move. Aberforth would come bursting in at any moment. He never knocked. I could hear Ariana tripping down the stairs, no doubt wanting to finish the tea she had planned for him.

“He likes Quidditch. But he is not a very good player. Never makes the first team of Gryffindor. Is lucky if he gets to play a few minutes in any game.”

“Hmm. How about fencing? Maybe he would like to fence with me. I am fair to middling good at that. Do you have any foils?”

 _Fencing foils_? I thought. In this house? “ _Muggle fencing_?” I asked aloud, shocked. It surprised me that Gellert would engage in such a thing. Young Wizards in Britain rarely practiced Muggle sports.

Gellert laughed, sardonic and dismissive in the manner than only he could be. “Is there any other type? It’s a hobby, Albus. I have no intention of proposing to duel with your little brother. That would not be sporting, would it?”

I recall being amused at what a smart arse he could be. “We don’t duel at Hogwarts.” I roguishly withheld the word “officially.” Actually, Aberforth was more than fast with a wand. He might not have the world’s strongest Magical reserves, but he was quick and had amassed a surprising array of spells. Yes, I thought, if Aberforth was good at anything it would be a duel with wands. But I would leave that for Gellert to find out for himself. My sweetheart could be far too self-assured for my comfort at times; it might be entertaining to watch someone best him at something, even if the someone happened to be my annoying brother Aberforth.

Without any warning, the door flew open and Aberforth stuck his head around the corner into the room.

“Hey!” I said, unable to resist the smile overtaking my face. Despite the fact I had not looked forward to his return, it was good to see the lad would had been my only real companion throughout my childhood.

“Hey, Albus,” he responded, his voice gruff, lowering his brow at the sight of the nymph-like creature sprawled across my bed.

Studying Aberforth through Gellert’s eyes, I observed his resemblance to me. We definitely looked like brothers. He was still shorter than me, probably always would be, I thought. I had been taller than he was at sixteen by the time I had turned fourteen. But, he was much stockier, with broader shoulders and coarser features, he could have been taken for the elder. There was a boyishness to my aspect that he had already left behind.

“Who is this?” he asked, rude as ever, cocking his head in the direction of Gellert.

“Gellert,” I said, grinning. “May I present my brother Aberforth?”

Looking positively wicked, Gellert winked at me. “Pleased meet you,” he said.

“This is Gellert Grindelwald of Budapest, most recently of Durmstrang, the great nephew of Professor Bagshot.”

“So this is him. News travels fast. The two of you have been the subject of gossip at Hogwarts. ” Aberforth said in that gravely disapproving tone of his. He did love to show off the lower range of his voice in those days. Gellert laughed. Aberforth was predictably provoked. Their first encounter threatened to play out at least as badly as my original expectations.

I snorted at the idea that I had made the argument only moments earlier that Aberforth never listened to such tittle-tattle. But then I had never provoked rumors before.

“Gossip?” I queried, my voice cracking in an exasperating manner.

“The gossip includes the speculation that you are likely to get your heart broken. That you have been alone for too long—all of your life actually. Right? There are not very many boys around interested in other boys and fewer still of your caliber.” Aberforth managed to put together more words at one time than I had ever heard out of him, somewhat perceptive in content also. He gave me a derisive sneer, before wheeling around to glare directly at Gellert. “Be careful with my brother,” he growled. “I know all about you. Your reputation has been ruined on the continent. You may think you can hide in an out-of-the-way little village like Godric’s Hollow. But, however great Albus’s weakness for pretty boys might be, he is not stupid.”

My mortification knew no bounds. My rough younger brother was insulting my first love, embarrassingly defensive of me, and making me look like a pathetic victim. Before I could say anything, Gellert bristled, sitting up straight and jutting his chin out, his anger further evident in the loss of his smooth, nearly perfect accent in English.

“Guard your tongue, boy. I know better than anyone else how remarkably intelligent Albus is and what a powerful wizard he is as well. I have also heard that you are genuinely stupid. But, unlike you Aberforth Dumbledore, I intend to reserve my judgment relating to such hearsay until I know you better. And because your brother and your lovely sister care for you and I care very much for them.”

Aberforth narrowed his eyes, opening his mouth and then closing it without speaking, before turning and stomping down the stairs.

“I am so sorry,” Gellert said, striding across the room and hugging me from behind. “I should have held my tongue. I don't know what comes over me sometimes."

“I tried to warn you that he is annoying,” I said, sighing, touching his hand which rested flat against my chest.

“It does not matter,” said Gellert. “We must accept that we will not encounter many on our level.”

In retrospect it appalls me to think that I tolerated such remarks from him, not only without comment, but even without any internal reaction to them. Youth and ignorance are not sufficient grounds to excuse my lack of perception. Coupled with the absence of a father, isolation from any extended family and the complete disassociation of my mother from anything that approached normal nurturing and tutoring attitudes during my formative years, it is a wonder I did not turn out to be an even greater monster than I was at the end of my teenage years. Raging hormones connected to my infatuation with Gellert completed the disastrous circuit.

 

** ** ** ** ** ** **

 

Two weeks had passed and it became increasingly obvious that it was all but impossible for Gellert and Aberforth to spend time in each other’s company without one of them provoking some sort of row. Fortunately and surprisingly, their antagonism did not appear to upset Ariana. If anything she seemed to find it humorous.

Meanwhile, the sexual tension between Gellert and I had hardened to the point that it could not be cut with a knife; one would need a pick axe to crack it. We still had not really touched, except for a brief embrace or chaste kiss. I knew why I was still afraid to admit my desire aloud, but I had no idea what was holding Gellert back.

Perhaps he was interested in seeing how much torture I could endure before I broke and finally offered myself up to him, a sacrificial lamb to my own vanity and anxiety. Gellert wanted me as much as I wanted him. We both knew it. But as long as he made no move, I feared being spurned by this brilliant and beautiful boy.

Spring had been overtaken by true summer. I sat with my back against the slender trunk and rough bark of a plum tree in the tiny orchard behind our cottage, trying to make the final corrections on an essay for Professor Bagshot. She had recently taken to asking me to proof read her finished copy. The conditions of our collaboration were advantageous for both of us. Our proximity to one another was convenient enough for me, that I was happy to charge her less than what the going rate for such services would have been in London. When Gellert had come, she had momentarily hoped that he could earn his keep assisting her on various projects, but he was not a native speaker and even if he had been, he was far too flighty and distractible to be good at the tedious work of copy checking what to him were largely dull as dirt articles on the history of Wizarding in Britain.

Gellert had constructed a makeshift sling shot using twigs, vines and little magic and was entertaining himself by lobbing tiny green plums at me.

“And what house were you in at Hogwarts, Albus? Slytherin or Ravenclaw?”

I laughed at the ignorance his question manifested. It was not often that he got something so completely wrong and I rather enjoyed it for a change. “I’m a Gryffindor! Everybody who knows me could guess that’s exactly where I belong. Not sly enough for Slytherin and, although I would certainly argue I have the intellect for Ravenclaw, my heart often rules my head. I am a man of great passions,” I growled at him, holding his eyes with my own. Finally having stepped over the edge, I would not hold back any longer.

“Reckless courage. I can see that. Interesting, but I would have imagined your intellectual strengths would have conquered that lion’s heart.” He wagged his eyebrows at me in a parody of licentiousness that made us both giggle with poorly suppressed lust. “I probably don’t entirely understand the Hogwarts sorting process. So, tell me. If I had attended your illustrious institution, which of your houses would have been mine?”

I knew there was no question he would have been speedily dispatched into Slytherin, but I pretended that I was honestly thinking over the question. “Highly unlikely that you would have found yourself in Hufflepuff.” My answer succeeded in horrifying him. He had often enough heard Aberforth use Hufflepuff as an adjective to describe all sorts of mild-mannered vacuousness. I enjoyed allowing him to squirm over the idea that I might for even a moment have considered Hufflepuff in relationship to him. “Definitely not Ravenclaw either. You clearly have the intellect and the curiosity, but not the vanity about it. Your pride is reserved for your clever deviousness. A true Ravenclaw values scholarship over raw intelligence. Not many of them would admit it. But that is the dirty little secret of the Ravenclaw soul—the intellectual bean counters of the academic world. You also have courage and recklessness enough for Gryffindor, but, excuse me if you find this unkind on my part, my dearest Gellert, you have not an ounce of altruism in your body.”

“I’m injured! I’d walk through fire for you, Albus. But, seriously, you Englishmen overrate the virtues of public service and fair play. I would turn your old adage on its head: what truly matters is the outcome and far less how the game is played.”

“Tut! Tut! Tut!” I teased. “You are shocking me. If you are any reflection of its philosophy, your Durmstrang Institute for Magical Learning lives up to its reputation for amorality.”

“You are always so generous. The truth is that the supercilious English Wizarding community views Durmstrang as a hotbed of darkness, not simply amorality. And worse still, the sinister Durmstrang asked me to leave because they did not approve of my dabbling in the darker arts. Careful, my gorgeous young innocent! You may be in over your head with me.”

He leaned toward me smiling a wicked smile, daring me to kiss him. I was ready for him. I wanted to eat him alive. He could play the wicked boy with me all he wanted. In what I thought was my infinitely superior wisdom of a year and some months, I believed I really knew him and that he was merely a careless, spoiled child, albeit an irresistibly attractive one, and just old enough for me to seduce without violating any legal constraints or moral concerns of my own. It was easy to view him as an arrogantly reckless young man, as a recent graduate and Gryffindor I knew a lot in those days about overconfident impulsiveness, but not enough about empirical psychology to recognize my own naïveté.


	4. Quest of the Deathly Hallows

“Give me your hand?” Gellert stretched out his hand and waggled his fingers at me in the most annoying and demanding way. It irritated me how Gellert believed he could get anything he wanted from me.

“Give me your hand, Albus!”

“Why?” I asked, stubborn and resistant.

“I want to tell your fortune, you lovely boy,” Gellert said. I took a deep breath and watched as his face transformed into tender longing. Wonderment and affection had vanquished the clumsiness of our first forays into sexual intimacy. We shuddered simultaneously at the memory of the afternoon and evening before.

Shaking my head at him with a pretense of reluctance, I offered him my hand. He traced the center crease of my palm. It tickled, causing me to want to jerk my hand away, but I restrained myself.

“Ah, this is your life line. You are destined to encounter great passion at a very early age. I hope I am not too late.” He laughed again and ran his tongue along his lower lip before pursing his lips at me obscenely. He truly was outrageously pretty. I wanted to grab him and kiss him into silence, but how far he intended to take his nonsensical game still intrigued me.

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “That is a Muggle gypsy trick. You cannot predict my fate.”

“You don’t know if I can or not. Test me.”

“Stupid boy!” I complained. The insult earned me a wide smile. He already had learned to enjoy provoking me. “How can I test you?”

“You can kiss me. And if the kiss is not the most incredible thing you have ever experienced, then I will admit I was wrong and leave you alone.”

I moved against him, until my thighs touched his. I knew he could feel my erection hardening through my thin, loose summer trousers. He responded in kind. I mustered all the courage and strength of will I could and asked, “Never said I wanted to be left alone, did I?”

He inhaled two, perhaps three, stuttering breaths. The habitual smirk had completely vanished from his face. He whispered, “Albus,” half plea, half expression of astonishment. If Gellert had shared this experience with anyone before, he must have been an excellent actor, because his amazement at our physical joy in one another seemed as new and surprising to him as it did to me.

I leaned forward, threading my fingers into his wild blond curls and pressing my lips against his with deliberate force. The kiss turned into everything I hoped it would be and so much more. The only sound out of Gellert was that of his labored breathing. My only experience with kissing had been the day before. I was only faking it, but with commitment and sincerity. Gellert did not seem to notice my lack of method, moaning and pushing his tongue into my mouth. He tasted of the applesauce we had eaten with our breakfast, with the faintest hint of cinnamon, his breath as fresh as that a child. I now understand how heartbreakingly, painfully young we were. Emboldened by my initial success, I rotated my hips against his groin. Suddenly, he gasped and groaned with impressive volume while returning the pressure. Out of nowhere, he trembled convulsively in my arms, triggering me.

“Score one for Hogwarts! You’re brilliant,” he said. I muttered something about coming in our pants liked fourth year boys. It really did feel a bit ridiculous, but exciting, that we wanted each other too much to wait. I mumbled a cleansing charm against the sticky mess. I was getting quite good at those.

“You completely surprise me, Albus. I had no idea before we started yesterday that we would be anything like this together.” He grinned and kissed me again. “We should not have waited so long, I think.”

“I honestly don’t know what I’m doing,” I admitted, kissing the delectable concave space behind his ear. Feeling the goose bumps spread along the skin of his neck, I licked and sucked there. He tasted salty and his fingers dug into my biceps like talons.

“Don’t stop!” he gasped.

By then I had pinned him against the wood burning cooker. Thankfully it had long since cooled. We were not in the habit of keeping it lit throughout the day in the summer. “Don’t worry. I have no interest in stopping, but do you think . . . can we do this again so soon?”

“We can have fun trying.”

The kitchen door slammed against the wall and Ariana’s high-pitched voice sent the blood flowing back to my heart and head. “There the two of you are! I went to the orchard looking for you. Aberforth said to tell you he went into the village. How long have you been here?”

Gellert groaned, although more in frustration than passion that time. “Not quite long enough.”

“Liar,” said Ariana. “I waited outside the door until I was positive that you had finished.”

“Where do you learn such things?” I shrieked at Ariana, aghast.

“Certainly not from you!” she said. “Why, if it weren’t for Gellert explaining about . . .”

“No. No. I do not want to hear any more!” I covered my ears with my hands. Ariana and Gellert both laughed at my embarrassment until their tears flowed.

** ** ** ** **

 

Aberforth and Ariana played chess in the parlor while Gellert and I sat at the kitchen table and looked over the lists I had made of everything we could cull from the books in my library and that of Professor Bagshot about ownership and location of each of the Deathly Hallows artifacts. Of greatest interest to Gellert, we discovered the Elder Wand was last known to have been in Germany, possibly Franconia in Bavaria, before the trail was lost. A couple of books in German were noted. Of course, Bagshot did not have them; she did not read German. I suggested a trip to London. Gellert insisted that, although he wouldn’t mind stopping in London, it seemed logical to go directly to Germany. His parents’ estate had finally been freed of all encumbrances. While he was not a wealthy man, neither was he penniless any longer.

Aberforth heard us arguing in the kitchen and stuck his head around the doorway to complain. “I have never known two such supposedly great friends to argue the way the two of you do. What now?”

“We are thinking of going to London later in the week,” I said with forced mildness. “We might stay overnight. First, we will need to go to a large library, perhaps the Wizarding division of the British Museum.” Gellert was shooting me such daggers with his eyes the entire time I was speaking with Aberforth that I reflexively glanced at his wand hand. I was not, however, going to give him the satisfaction of reacting in front of Aberforth. “And then we might need to talk to some people thereabouts.”

Gellert rolled his eyes at me one last time, before announcing in a loud angry voice. “I think we should go straight to Germany and start looking there.”

For some reason that struck Aberforth as incredibly funny and he howled laughing. “Ah, now the difference comes out. And who would pay for this grand expedition to Germany?”

“I have money now,” Gellert said, jerking up his chin in a gesture of haughty disdain.

Aberforth laughed again. ‘Well, if you are planning a trip hiking around Germany, you better do it quickly, because Albus has to be back in time for me to prepare to return to Hogwarts at the end of August.”

Ariana popped her head up over Aberforth’s shoulder. “I want to go to Germany.”

I said, “You are not going anywhere.”

“We should talk about this later,” Gellert said, releasing a huff of air while shaking his head at me, his sign that he had declared an armistice and planned to reengage later when he was better armed.

** ** ** ** **

 

I heard a scratching at the window. A scant five minutes earlier, I had sent my owl Beatrice with a message to Gellert. The bird might have reached him and returned, but Gellert would not have had time to read the rambling letter she carried, much less have drafted the simplest response. Nothing I had written was worthy of immediate attention in any case. Alone in my room, over the sounds of crickets and a nightjar, I thought I heard a scrapping upon the roof.

The cheeky rogue had come himself and intended to climb in through my window. After crossing the room and throwing the shutters open, I reached up to help him over the window sill with one hand, while placing a finger against my lips in the universal plea for silence.

He grabbed me by both arms and leaned into me, whispering, “I did not come to talk. I need to touch you, to hold you. I could not sleep.”

That was the first night that I recall Gellert sleeping in my room. It was to become a habit. For the first week or so, he tried to sneak back to the Bagshot cottage before anyone else woke up in the morning. Later we stopped bothering.

** ** ** ** **

 

I threw a wild tickling curse. Merlin only knows how I managed to hit him at all, but I did. He bent over almost double from the waist laughing and coughing at the same time, while sputtering in an attempt to breathe. Unsure of whether to rush to help him or guard myself, I chose caution over empathy and held my position, wand at the ready.

My opponent after all was Gellert Grindelwald, expelled from Durmstrang for excessive use of potentially dangerous curses with younger and more vulnerable students. I was right to remain alert. He virtually flew into an aggressive posture, looking half fencing master, half danseur; countering with a curse that we called a Stinging Nettle at Hogwarts in my youth, harmless after a few minutes but excruciating upon contact. His miss was intentional, veering at the last possible moment to ricochet off my bedroom wall, leaving a viscous green smear reminiscent in appearance and smell to that of rotting vegetable matter.

“Eww!” I called out to him. “Cast curses often, blondie?”

Throwing his head back and laughing with abandon, he sent curse after unpleasant curse at me, the deliberate narrow misses more spectacular in the tight quarters than any direct hits would have been. I responded in kind. We were so nearly equally matched that the effect upon me was exhilarating. I stopped first, collapsing onto the ancient overstuffed chair behind me in a panting boneless mass.

Gellert straddled my lap. I could feel his arousal hard against me. The sweetness of his smile contrasted with the wicked twinkle in his eyes.

"Oh, yes, Albus," he whispered, drawing a deep shuddering breath. "I’ve been waiting to be able to fuck you or be fucked by you since I first saw you, but I had never expected to like it so much, to need it so very much. Did you? Do you want to do everything? To go the rest of the way?”

I wasn’t sure what the rest of the way entailed. "Hmm. I think I would like to do anything you want to do," I answered. "In answer to your first question, I might have suspected we would be spectacular together. I've wanted you since I saw you walking up that path to our door. Before I knew a thing about you. Wanted you so . . . needed you so . . ."

"And you still do? You still want me now that you know me? Foolish lad. Well, I'm happy that is true. You should be aware, however, that once we have known one another in that way, there will be no going back.” He was nothing if not dramatic. “No one else will ever be able to match the two of us together. I know that, Albus. I know I am not wrong." His beautiful face looked almost sad. His intensity was not just passionate, but tender. At that moment, although I still feared it would be short-lived, I was certain that he loved me--loved me as I loved him.

He reached to unbuckle my belt. His mouth was everywhere, all over my lips, my face, my neck, as he wrenched and pulled at my clothing. I gasped; this was what I wanted, what I had been waiting for since I first saw him walking up the path to my door. I held my breath involuntarily, before releasing it and panting, hyperventilating, unable to draw any air into my lungs. Unable to think or move for a moment, I at last grasped his face in my hands and, holding it still, began to kiss him back.

I was ready to be taken, to be penetrated by Gellert. That was what I had expected for some time. But in the end, it turned out that was not what he wanted. He wanted to be the bottom, as young people refer to it nowadays; he wanted to be the vessel, open and accepting of me. But then he still wanted to control every aspect of our love making, how fast, how forceful, even how long he wanted it to last. He had some problems with me initially in the execution of the latter. But I am nothing if not a fast learner and the practice required was stunning.

** ** ** ** **

 

The ultimate consummation of our physical relationship was distracting enough for a while that the Gellert let go of the discussion of going to Germany. In truth, distracting is an radical understatement. All the clichés of story and song were true for us. We could not keep our hands off one another. The recovery time of teenagers and the staying power we finally mastered ensured that we spent most of our time making love or looking for a private corner in which to do so for the greater part of a month.

When Gellert turned his attention back to the quest for the Deathly Hallows, however, he was relentless. Not only did he want to go immediately, he determined that we should take Ariana with us as well. Whether he wanted to bring her along because he knew I would refuse to leave her permanently, and leaving her temporarily would mean my travels with him would always be constrained by anxiety, or because he genuinely cared for her, I’ll never know for sure. I know he identified strongly with her. Her disability touched something profound within him. He also always claimed to disagree strongly with the way we cared for Ariana.

“She is not your sister, Gellert,” I said to him one afternoon when he badgered with greater than usual persistence.

“You hurt me,” he pouted, sticking out his lower lip. I could not decide if I wanted more to kiss him or punch him in his pretty mouth. “I would think of her as a sister. If the world were a fair place, you could be my spouse and she would legally be my sister.”

Hearing those words I had so much wanted to hear—that he wanted our relationship to be deep and permanent—made me suddenly and viciously angry. How dare he lead me on and torture me the way he did. If that had been what he wanted, then why had he not said so earlier and if this was some sort of game, I could not think of a crueler, more heartless one. “I am not at all convinced you could ever want that, Gellert,” I said, trying to pull together the last of my dignity and independence. “We have been intimate countless times, in every way that two people can be, and you’ve never said you loved me.”

“You’ve hurt me again!” he complained, the very picture of injured outrage. “Of course, I love you.”

“Even if you do, she would not be your sister . . . ”

“More’s the pity,” he said, finally truly angry and not just playacting.

“ . . . and her welfare is still my responsibility. Not yours.”

“You treat her like an invalid. She is strong and nearly as clever as you, if not interested in the same things. And she’s very beautiful for a girl. Surely you can see that. It’s wrong that your entire family has prevented her from . . . forbidden her to use her magic. She is the injured party and you have treated her as though she is criminally insane.”

“Precisely. That is an accurate description. She is my sister and I love her. But I cannot forget, should not forget, one of her vicious explosions killed my mother. She cannot be trusted any more than one can trust a tamed beast of the jungle. I endanger myself and life of my brother to keep her from being locked away. I have allowed you access to her against my better judgment and because I have loved you too much. And she loves you as well.”

By then I had begun to sob. There is nothing charming about that kind of crying. One would never have found anything like it in one of Ariana’s maudlin books of star-crossed romance. I could see nothing through my fogged up eyeglasses. I removed them and tossed them in the direction of my dresser. My nose was running and I tried to wipe it with the back of my hand, smearing snot across my face.

Gellert flew at me. I raised an arm in front of my face to protect myself from the expected blow. Instead he hit me with a full body slam, nearly knocking the wind out of me as he pushed me onto the bed. He straddled me, pinning my arms above my head. He kissed me repeatedly, with great force, causing my teeth to cut against my upper lip. Only when I opened my mouth to him did he begin to gentle.

“Love you. Love you, Al. You really know how to hurt me,” he stammered, hands everywhere, buttons flying, the sound of ripping cloth, as he managed to undress us both with a combination of magic and reckless force. Even then I doubted the sincerity of his protestations of affection and need—one part sentiment and two parts manipulation, I thought. But I also marveled still at my fortune. Who was I truly to question him? I was too tall, too clumsy, ungainly and plain while he was graceful and beautiful, worldly and sophisticated. I was simply smart but not savvy Albus Dumbledore faced with my perfect prince. But I could change for him and I would change him, I thought. Why couldn’t we have everything?

Gellert faced the open window with me spooned against his back. He held my hand in a fierce grip, with my arm trapped beneath his and my knuckles pressed against his lips. At longer and longer intervals he would kiss my hand, as his grasp of me loosened slowly. I fell asleep nuzzled up against him, thinking that when I awakened in the morning I would find Aberforth and explain that we were taking Ariana to Germany with us. It would be hard to convince him but I would have to do it.


	5. Epilogue

It is almost impossible for me to write an account of what transpired the following day. Lack of courage is not the sole reason that I am unable to describe the events in detail. Largely I cannot provide an accurate narrative because it was all so unexpected and ended almost as quickly as it began. If you read the story in the newspapers of that date or in the brief summaries of the events in histories of that period, you will know as much as I do.

Four passionate youngsters with differing opinions found themselves caught in sudden heated argument, not unlike in subject matter or even in degree from numerous others that had already transpired among them that summer. Three wands were engaged and the wild magic of an unstable young girl. My blindness and irresponsibility created the perfect environment for the conflagration. If Ariana was the dry timber, Gellert was the spark, and Aberforth the oil.

I do remember deciding to dress quickly and go downstairs when I heard the clangor of pans against the surface of the old iron cooker in the kitchen. Ariana's and Gellert's voices drifted up the stairs.

“We still have enough coffee left for two people,” Gellert said, without a hint of the usual acerbic layers of almost anything he said. “Do you think Albus would like some?”

“I am sure he would. Make the coffee for you and Albus. Aberforth prefers tea and I am not addicted to it the way that you are. How many eggs do you think?” The trivia of an ordinary morning, terrible in retrospect.

The coffee was a godsend. Gellert and I had stayed up far too late. Aberforth complimented Ariana on the scrambled eggs. Finally, as Gellert and Ariana, who had been playing the role of hosts, began to clear up, I decided to raise the question of the trip before I lost my nerve.

“So, we are thinking of leaving for Germany the beginning of next week and after a lot of thought, I have decided to take Ariana with me.”

“That’s impossible,” Aberforth yelled at me. “Have you lost your mind? Yes. She has been better this summer. Do you want to undo all of that before we have even had a chance to see if she can continue to improve?”

Gellert, dropped the plates he had been holding into the dish pan with a clatter, soapy water sloshing over the brim and onto the floor. “Don’t speak to your brother in that tone of voice. Surely you have known we have been considering leaving and taking her with us for the last two months.”

“Liar!” Aberforth shouted. “Liars, filthy liars and cowards, both of you. You’ve deliberately told me nothing. Waiting to present it as an accomplished fact.”

“Aberforth,” I said, reaching out to grasp his arm. He wrenched loose from my grip and the next thing I knew his wand rested at my throat. In my peripheral vision I saw Gellert reached for his wand. Ariana threw herself against Aberforth and I pulled my wand. I turned and pointed to Gellert. I do not recall casting a spell or hearing him cast one. My intent was to block Gellert if he tried. I could hear Aberforth and Ariana screaming at one another and then there was a huge explosion of sparks and smoke. As the air cleared I found myself wandless. Gellert had landed on his arse, on the ground, looking stunned. Aberforth was shrieking hysterically and Ariana sprawled flat on her back, eyes closed, motionless between Aberforth and me.

I could not look at Gellert or talk to him. I caught a partial view of his face as he ran out of the cottage, a look of disbelief, shadowed by horror and disappointment. When I tried to find him the following day, I learned that he had left Godric's Hollow within the hour after the incident.

The day after Gellert left I woke up feeling more than one hundred years old, eyes scratchy and throat raw, head pounding with the physical residue of fear and grief. Only the previous morning I had awakened in the same bed, to the warmth of Gellert’s smooth skin, the scent of him in my nostrils and his legs entangled with mine. The memory of the next two or three months are still so darkly depressing, I do not intend to visit them in a memoir.

Yet, young and brokenhearted as I was, I would be forced to live through an excruciating two years before I would even reach the ripe old age of twenty. Looking back now, I see that life had far more to offer me than I could have imagined during that desolate interlude of my youth. I had, all in one catastrophic afternoon, lost my baby sister, after failing utterly and completely in my duty to nurture and protect her, as well as the love of my life. Loss of innocence does not begin to describe what I experienced.

My brother may still love me, he almost certainly does. He is a bigger man than I am, more tied to this mortal clay of which we are composed. My idealistic attempts at reaching for great heights have left me face down in the mud more often than not. While Aberforth, simpler and more rooted, has never fallen so low. Yet he has never regained the respect he had for me before that tragedy and I cannot blame him. Having worked with young people for decades, I am better able now to forgive my eighteen-year-old self than I was at that time. I would have far less respect for myself if that entire experience had been any less shattering to me than it was.

I had dreamed that Gellert and I would be together forever, that our lives could be one endless round of shared ideals, satisfying work and making love. Whether in my comfortable bedroom surrounded by all of the accoutrements of my boyhood and school days, or in the dying candlelight of the tiny attic room at the top of old lady Bagshot's cottage, we had played out our relationship cozily disconnected from the larger world. For all my claims to have known the world through study, Gellert’s belief that he had traveled, and our shared desire for change, our universe that summer had consisted of only Gellert and Albus. We were merely two bright young men, healthy, fit and full of themselves and one another.

Isolated as I was in Godric’s Hollow, I might have lived some years longer as sexually uninitiated if I had not met Gellert. I never asked and he never told me what his past experiences had been, but I am sure now he allowed me to believe that he was nearly as innocent as I was. At the time, I had determined that if he did not initiate a physical relationship with me, then I would reach out and touch him. Conscious decision making had no place in my considerations. Tomorrow would be soon enough to think about tomorrow. Whatever the cost to me might be, I thought it would be a bargain price to pay for whatever Gellert was willing to give me, almost as though I realized that the fire of desire I felt for him would be short-lived and never repeated with another.

How could I have believed that late-adolescent hormones and a traitorous hopefulness had made me see the best in everything and look beyond the dreary reality of my immediate future? I thrust the idea aside that this new experience, unbridled indulgence in sex, could cloud the sharpest intellect. I refused to consider that Gellert wanted anything different from what I wanted and needed, a friend, a lover, and a collaborator. And the greater good? When did his concept of the good and my own diverge? Or were they ever even close?

As director of Hogwarts, I have been sympathetic to our students’ ill-starred love affairs which I have encountered with some predictable regularity. Others among my colleagues may scoff at their earnestness or the perceived depth of their misery with remarks like, ‘Oh, he’ll grow out of it,’ or, ‘She has no idea of what real suffering feels like.’ But I will never dismiss the torments of young love lightly. The admission pains me still that I have never loved, will never love again, as I loved him. I am able to call before me with the absolute clarity of a pensieve-held memory a vision of the day that I first saw him, replete with the sounds, smells and awareness of my original responses.

I remember thinking that I should be thankful for Gellert’s lack of innocence. If we had both been as ignorant and unworldly as I had been when we first met, that glorious and tragic summer might have come and gone and Gellert moved on, along with the long days and warm nights, without us ever having come together. Despite everything that happened, I would not want to have never experienced Gellert. Even Ariana had three months of friendship and a sense of normalcy that she would not have otherwise experienced. I cannot imagine what Ariana’s life might have been like. If Gellert and I had taken her abroad, I suspect that also would have been a disaster. Aberforth and I should have had guidance and assistance in caring for Ariana.

Finally, many people over the years have speculated that Gellert never loved me. Or that I was his young and innocent dupe. I was the elder by almost two years. At that age, every half year is significant. With my family history, no one can claim I was entirely unfamiliar with the world's darkness. Yet, still I like to think that Gellert Grindelwald might have loved me.

**Author’s Notes:**

In 2007 J.K. Rowling rocked the world of blockbuster children’s publishing by announcing at an appearance at Carnegie Hall in New York City, shortly after the publication of her last of the Harry Potter series, The Deathly Hallows, that our beloved Professor Dumbledore is gay. There was a lot of discussion at the time ranging from opinions that she gave us too little too late or that if she had the courage of her convictions that she might have written him as a homosexual man throughout the series. Back story is a funny thing for a writer of fiction. I know for myself that it cannot be underestimated and its very existence colors everything one writes about the person, place or thing. I do not doubt that Rowling saw Dumbledore as gay and never contradicted her personal view in his characterization.

I disagree with those who wish she had made Dumbledore’s sexuality a greater focus in her novels. She did not choose the novels as her bully pulpit. I might have admired her had she done so. However, I do not require that of someone who is telling me a story in which one aspect or another of a supporting character is not explicitly developed, as long as it is not contradicted.

I write a lot of male/male romance. I enjoy telling these stories, in part because they are a minority viewpoint. But they are not political for me. Although, I presume my underlying world view will always bleed through. I do not necessarily have a major female character in all of those. I hope I represent the women who are present in those stories as convincing, real and worthy of interest on the part of the reader. I chose not to place the woman question front and center in every story. Doesn’t mean I do not support women’s rights. Write those stories! I will love you and applaud you.

Anyway, my point, returning to J.K. Rowling, is the one thing I did not like very much and might have wished she had done differently was that when she spoke of Dumbledore’s preference for the same sex, she had to present it as essentially an enduring tragedy within the history of his long life. Other characters find love, but not the one and only character that the author reveals to her readers to be gay. He is allowed to love only once, given a beautiful brilliant young man who later becomes the greatest dark lord of the modern era until Voldemort. (Did the darkest Wizard of modern times until Voldemort really have to be gay?) Albus Dumbledore is devastated. He is forced to defeat his one true love in a Wizarding duel and then disarm and imprison him for the rest of his life. When asked if Dumbledore had ever been in love, she answered:

> My truthful answer to you... I always thought of Dumbledore as gay. [ovation.] ... Dumbledore fell in love with Grindelwald, and that that added to his horror when Grindelwald showed himself to be what he was. To an extent, do we say it excused Dumbledore a little more because falling in love can blind us to an extent? But, he met someone as brilliant as he was, and rather like Bellatrix he was very drawn to this brilliant person, and horribly, terribly let down by him. Yeah, that's how I always saw Dumbledore.

In the book _The Deathly Hallows_ , Grindelwald is slain by Voldemort when the dark lord interrogates him in his prison cell while trying to locate the Elder Wand. Grindelwald refuses to tell Voldemort that it was Dumbledore who has the Elder Wand. It always appeared to this reader that this was a final act of redemption of Grindelwald and an act of loyalty to his friend which cost him his life. I found it romantic and moving. The film _Deathly Hallows_ has Grindelwald tell Voldemort where to find the wand and his life is spared. Dramatic difference for me. I’ll stick with the book version as my personal canon.


End file.
